


a wonderful lie

by sighless



Category: Harvest Moon, Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life
Genre: Deaf Character, but i tried, casual angst with a sprinkle of sunshine, in which jack Can Not Farm, in which jack has depression, sorry i've never written ff before, theres gonna be a lot of characters trust me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighless/pseuds/sighless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you get the chance to throw it all away. It's best sometimes to grab the bull by the horns and go along with it, but sometimes it's just better to remember you can't milk a bull and that you should probably get to watering your tomato plants at some point. </p>
<p>In which Jack is a horrible, awful, no-good, very bad farmer, but doesn't feel like he's good enough at anything else to warrant running away from what he ran to. Work in progress, author has no idea where they're going with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a wonderful lie

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit okay this is my first fanfiction really. i had it scrapped for a while and then decided i wanted to try again, and i'm not sure where i'm going with this so bear with me okay

Perhaps long-dead, rotten seeds could still grow. On some level, that thought was a bit ironic, but on most levels it didn’t matter.Not much did -- he never would have been able to leave otherwise. At least, that’s what he told himself. When the outstretched paper hand came through his mail slot, beckoning to him from a village he’d never even known still existed, he took it. Nevermind all the faces he’d never see again; honestly, at this point they were blurring together, all bulging noses and tidy eyebrows without any spark of life in the dull color beneath them.

Not that Jack could really say any different for himself.

The ease with which he left everything behind could have just meant there were nothing but dreams to be had in the first place.

That old rusted truck (with the engine that worked mostly on Thursday afternoons) stayed behind in some other odd town, tucked away from the universe in thick trees like big green guts, with the sun’s drooping, disapproving face above. The paved roads dissolved to dirt. At that point, it all became horses and wagons. The heat picked up, pooled in the clouds, and sweated onto the earth.  Everyone continued about their business, still shuffling from one building to the next, vaguely running errands they’d forgotten about hours ago and chattering away to neighbors.

His watch still said it was early noon. A hand clasped on his shoulder told him this was the time to leave. The face was at least half eyebrow, and while that type of person would seem memorable, Jack only felt the slightest lazy tugging at his mind, the past an album of black and white pictures abandoned in a thrift shop. No names, ages, or dates on the back. Just stoic composure. Moving in waves so slowly, this man may have been a photo himself.

“Jack -- do you remember me? I’m Takakura. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

There was something about the way the man introduced himself -- it should have been muscle memory, and his name was some instinctual flutter through the air. Simple, though not at all, really. Takakura. The farmer, the farmer’s friend, the farmer’s son’s uncle. He was conditional, the type of person who doesn’t really exist unless someone else has need.

The young man fell behind his surrogate uncle of days long past. No one stopped to wave as they left.

The road only got more winded as they trekked, and nothing seemed alive after a while. Every leaf shook as if telling another a secret, every branch leaning to help. Footsteps, mainly, lined the dirt, but there were ruts from very thin wheels, like an old carriage.

Another clasped hand, pulled away as quickly as it came, yet sinking slowly through the thick air. "I've been meaning to show you something your father always wanted you to see."

The next step could have been a drop-off, the road became so steep. Finally, though, they were in the place of some ancient postcard gathering dust in the attic of someone who’s forgotten the people who sent it. Cold brick houses sprung up here and there, and the air was pleasantly brisk, carrying petals from the clustered flowers.

Some of his childhood seeped back, running around this area for hundreds of years that lasted twelve hours each day. It may have been appropriate this was the place of his childhood. Looking now, it made sense to think of it as a place of his childhood. It may as well have been a dollhouse village, undersized and too pretty to be real. Jack remembered all the pictures he’d taken over the summer as a kid, all of different nooks and crannies, his dad and he playing by the river.

He brought a huge book full of them, it was underneath the driver’s seat in the truck.

_Shit._

  
  


☼☼☼

 

Every second broke its bones and tore its muscles in attempts to stretch out as far as possible. The sun froze in its ascent, and Jack could swear his watch was ticking backwards. For a small farm, it took so long to explain. Somewhere along the line Jack had gotten a cow, so he guessed he couldn’t complain.

When the dogs came, it did tear at his heart when one, its ears drooping over its eyes, stumbled into him and let its soft bark kiss him. The other one stood around Takakura while he mentioned plans to go off and sell it. The puppy did not seem fazed in the slightest, considering Jack had all but written a musical in his head about these vagrant, world-weary friends, traveling through wind and rain. Yet their time together was ending, and the dog staring up at him did not seem to care.

He didn’t feel he had much room to judge.

Finally, time jumped forward again and Takakura offered to show Jack around the town. He ached for rest and told the older man so; he’d look around eventually. There was no argument.

“Get some rest, then,” he suggested, pointing to the small stack of logs he was trying to call a house. Jack remembered his apartment back in that place he’d called home for so many lonely Christmases. The walls were brick, but the type of brick that looks plastic, the type people use to make a place look cozy but that only looks desperate to be so. A few spiders scuttled over the doorframe.

Takakura left the man to his own devices, and Jack was about to take a few steps in.

Something in his head started pulsing, though, and he could swear he was tasting color. It was more of the melted crayon taste, though. Every perfume he’d ever known assaulted his nose, and his eyes burned. Turning around, the source jumped with glee.

Three tiny creatures in little cartoon outfits sang. He felt every single note humming in his veins. Their features were somewhat pixie-like. With every rise of note, so went his spirits, and with every drop they fell. Harvest sprites, the sudden awareness came to him, and he was smiling on his knees without realizing he’d even gotten closer. In a slow moment, their names became part of his bones, embedded in his soul -- no, _uncovered_. As if they’d been there all along, every glint in the mirror and every extra shadow in the dark. Jack. His name became part of them, because he was _one_ of them.

They were gone.

Jack stepped back and into his new home.

Whatever he landed on was pretty soft; he was out like a light.

 


End file.
